


Thanks For the Memories (Even if They Weren't So Great)

by planetarySwordsman



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon Compliant, Sadstuck, algebra class makes me think of people dying, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetarySwordsman/pseuds/planetarySwordsman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are Bro Strider, and you no longer exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanks For the Memories (Even if They Weren't So Great)

**Author's Note:**

> So... I know you get tired of reading shit like this, but this is my first fic on the site! Yeah. Hehe. Short little fic inspired by Algebra class. Because math makes me think of people dying.

You still remember the day you picked Dave up. Literally- you had gathered him up in your arms from the smoking impact crater of a meteor long-gone and flashstepped home. Tiny shades were purchased, baby food and diapers were obtained. A love of irony and apple juice was instilled in your young charge, and, as he grew older, your skillful mastery of fighting was too. You still remember lying awake all night with him snoring softly next to you, (cradles? Fuck that shit. Strider snuggletimes are a requirement for babies) afraid to mess him up and terrified you wouldn’t. You remember the day the kid got a package in the mail from one John Egbert, which was also the day he finally removed the too-small shades you had given him and replaced them with what would become his signature aviators. You remember the first time a rooftop strife ended in a draw, and the first one you lost. You distinctly remember patching each other up after rough strifes or accidents, you remember running from OCS (I mean c’mon you’re not that screwed up), you remember pranking the little brat with Lil Cal and smuppets (okay yes you are). The day he decided it was necessary to go up to the roof at 3am and light the fireworks from the sink is particularly vivid in your fading brain, the soft and silky feel of his hair contained forever in the rough skin of your palm. You had doffed your hat, removed your glove, and ruffled his hair. “Good kid. Best bro.”, you said, just for the ironies. But back to the present. You said that nothing would stop a Strider- well, you lied. A sword through the chest is a pretty failsafe way to do just that- seems your killer was well-versed in the art of Strider stopping. You grit your teeth against the pain, lifting one of your leaden hands to grasp the familiar hilt of your sword, tugging at it weakly (as hard as you can). Nothing happens, save another wave of searing pain assaulting your senses. There is a ringing in your ears, and your vision goes black for a split second. Your arm drops back down and you gasp, searching for air that just won’t come. You struggle against the burning grip of Death, two thoughts chasing each other around your mind- Dave, and how unironic your chosen manner of death is. Seriously, bro- a sword through vital organs is such a lame cause of death. You manage a raspy chuckle, lifting your head up to softly fistbunp yourself. Immediately your arms and head thunk back down, splashing softly as they land in the pool of your blood that you seem to be immersed in. you spit a glob of the stuff out of your mouth, wiping your face on your shoulder. There’s seriously a lot of blood here, wow- it’s amazing you didn’t feel it before. Just as the thought registers in your mind, you realise your whole body is completely numb, and that your vision is wavering in shades of red and orange, with black smog creeping in towards the middle and obscuring your vision. The world finally goes black, and you gasp once- a name, Dave’s maybe, or your own- and leave. You’re floating, and you see a chill dude with platinum blonde hair and the coolest aviators ever run over to your body, shake your shoulders – hey, kid, calm down – and begin to weep. You wish you could comfort him, somehow, but you are speeding up, rising higher and higher until finally you just burst in a tiny *pop!* of orange. A breeze sweeps across the land of heat and clockwork, smelling faintly of Texas and smuppets, of worn black leather and steel. You are Bro Strider, and you no longer exist.


End file.
